"It is _not_ destroyed, Robert Cecil," observed Dalton, calmly pulling a bundle of papers from his vest: "look here--and here--and here--do you not know your own hand-writing? you practised me first in deception: I had not forgotten your kind lessons, when in your presence I committed forged letters to the flames!" The man laughed the laugh of contempt and bitter scorn as he held forward the documents. For a few moments Sir Robert seemed petrified; his eyes glared on the papers, as if their frozen lids had not the power of shutting out the horrid proofs of his iniquity. Suddenly he made a desperate effort to secure them; but the steady eye and muscular arm of the smuggler prevented it. "Hands off!" he exclaimed, whirling the Baronet from him, as if he had been a thing of straw; "you know my power, and you know my terms: there needs no more palaver about it." "Will not gold serve your purpose?" "No, I have enough of that: I want distinction and fame, a free pardon, and the command of one of your registered and acknowledged plunderers; or, mayhap, baptism for my own bright little Fire-fly, as the 'Babe of Grace;' or--But, hang it, no--I'd sink the vessel first, and let her die, as she has lived, free, free, free! _I_ belong to a civilised set of beings, and must therefore be a slave, a slave to something or some one. Noll knows my talents well, knows that I am as good a commander, ay, and for the matter of that, would be as honest a one as the best." He paused: the Baronet groaned audibly. "We have one or two little jobs upon the coasts here of Kent and Essex, trifles that must, nevertheless, be attended to; but this day month, Sir Robert Cecil, we meet again. I will not longer keep you from your wife. Gracious Heaven! where was I when mine expired! But farewell! I would not detain you for her sweet and gentle sake: she will be rewarded for her goodness to my child! Remember," he added, closing the door, "remember--one month, and Hugh Dalton!" CHAPTER II. Death! be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death---- * * * * * ----Why swell'st thou, then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally'; And Death shall be no more:--Death! thou shalt die. DR. DONNE.